


Christmas Dilemma

by Mofic



Category: Jeeves and Wooster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mofic/pseuds/Mofic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie wants to go to Brinkley Court for Christmas, but how to get out of working as editor/publisher of My Lady's Boudoir?  Can Jeeves save him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madlovescience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlovescience/gifts).



Christmas Dilemma

Ask anyone who knows me: the fellows at the Drones, my old school chums, the various girls I've been engaged to from time to time, my assorted aunts. They'll all say that Bertram Wooster is a fine and genial fellow, but a bit of a lily of the field. Well, some of the aunts and a couple of the girls might demur, if demur is the word I'm looking for, on the fine fellow part. But "lilies of the field" is a pretty universal opinion, I'd say, at least among those who both are acquainted with B. Wooster and know their Scripture. I happened to win a Prize for Scripture Knowledge at my preparatory school when only a small child, so I can say with some authority that the l. of the f. toil not, neither do they spin. And yours truly does his best to follow their example.

Of course there was the one time I wrote an article – or, as we say in the business, a "piece" – on "What the Well Dressed Gentleman is Wearing" for my Aunt Dahlia's publication _My Lady's Boudoir_, but that was, as they say, the exception that proves the rule. I'm not really sure how an exception can prove a rule, but I have it on good authority (to wit, Jeeves) that that is what they say, whoever "they" may be.

So it was with some dismay that I received a letter from my Uncle Tom suggesting that I take up something very akin to toiling and spinning, as far as I could see. And not just any toiling and spinning, but toiling and spinning of a particularly ignominious nature. Uncle Tom is married to the aforementioned Aunt Dahlia and too often – according to him, at least – called upon to subsidize her periodical. It seems that _My Lady's Boudoir_, although an artistic and social success, is not usually a financial one. And Uncle Tom, although rolling in the stuff, is loathe to part with money. So the esteemed uncle by marriage was always endeavoring to come up with an alternative to forking over five hundred pounds every time Aunt Dahlia's business fell behind. And, unfortunately, this time his endeavors left me gaping and all atwitter.

His letter suggested that instead of Aunt Dahlia continuing to employ an editor/publisher (or as the letter specifically said, continuing to "throw money away on that fathead editor/publisher") that she turn the job over to her favorite nephew, since (quoting once again from his letter) "you're a fathead whom I should hope would not expect to be paid" and "it's time you made some use of that degree from Oxford."

I showed the letter to Jeeves straightaway and asked him what I should do. "If you intend to accede to Mr. Travers's request, sir," he replied, "perhaps you should learn something about editing and publishing of periodicals."

"I don't intend to accede to Uncle Tom's bally request, Jeeves," I replied with some indignation. "Can you imagine me as editor of _My Lady's Boudoir_? The fellows at the Drones would never let me hear the end of it. I mean, it's one thing to write a 'piece' – and a very fine one, I'm told – on a particularly gentlemanly topic, and quite another to have to be known as the editor/publisher of a lady's magazine. I mean, really! However much they pay the current bloke, it can't be enough. Not to have to tell his cronies what he does with his days." I paused, reflecting, before I continued. "And then there's the other matter."

"What matter is that, sir?"

"Well, it would be sort of a job, don't you think?"

"As there would be no remuneration, sir, perhaps it would be more of a hobby."

"Well it's a dashed sight closer to a job than I'd like to encounter. I mean, really. A hobby is something one does for fun, like Gussie Fink-Nottle's newts or my... Boat Race Night revels. If one is obliged to do it, it's hardly a hobby."

"In that, sir, you agree with the American author Samuel Clemens, more frequently known as Mark Twain. He said, 'Work is anything a body is obliged to do and play is anything a body is not obliged to do.' "

Sometimes those American blighters know whereof they speak. It was Bertram's fondest wish to not be obliged to perform any task connected with My Lady's Boudoir.

Turning Uncle Tom down, though, could prove to be a tricky proposition. I didn't want the old cow-creamer collector upset with me, after all. When Uncle Tom is upset, then Aunt Dahlia is upset, and we can't have that. Particularly because when Uncle Tom and Aunt Dahlia are upset, it's highly unlikely that they would invite the person causing such upset to come stay with them at Brinkley Court, their country home. And a delightful place it is, at that. The outside is full of those picturesque parks and quaint vistas that are all the rage in English country homes, and the inside – albeit a few too many antique silver whatnots for my taste – is most comfortably and elegantly furnished. But best of all, the meals are prepared by Anatole, France's gift to gastronomy.

I say, his _Plat de Cote de Boeuf au Cabarnet avec Pomme Rissolees_ must be tasted to be believed, and his profiteroles are truly divinely inspired. I had just been up to Brinkley a couple of months ago for a lovely week of gastronomic delight, and I was looking forward to spending Christmas there in just a few more weeks. And Christmas is when Anatole truly pulls out all the stops and outdoes himself. I could almost taste his Buche de Noel. But the imaginary buche turned to dust in my mouth when I thought of the likely result of delivering what Jeeves calls a nolle prosequi to the esteemed uncle's proposition.

"What am I going to do, Jeeves?" I asked, and a note of panic intruded.

"I hardly know, sir," he responded, with a definite note of frost in his voice and a glance across the room at my hat rack. For on the rack was a chapeau of which Jeeves did not approve. I had been quite strict with him when he first told me that it was not the thing. "That's hardly the feudal spirit, Jeeves. I will wear what I choose," I'd told him firmly, and I meant it. But the thing is, a situation like this requires the formidable brain that only my valet possesses. And, without actually saying so, it was clear that Jeeves's assistance was dependent on my complying in the matter of hats.

"Jeeves," I said meekly. "Get me out of this predicament and you may do what you will with any and all hats in the residence."

"Very good, sir."

"So what will you do?" But he had oiled out in that silent way he has before I'd even finished the question.

Christmas at Brinkley was a gastronomic and social success of the first order. Jeeves didn't tell me just what he had done, but clearly he had worked some magic. Uncle Tom never mentioned My Lady's Boudoir and when Aunt Dahlia brought it up, he'd give her a significant glance, nodding ever so slightly in my direction and she'd immediately cease and desist. I admit I was somewhat puzzled by his behavior but I was determined to leave well enough alone. That is, until Uncle Tom buttonholed me on the last day of the visit, handing me a business card for one E.A. Leeds of Harley Street.

"Do consult Dr. Leeds when you get home," he said. "Best in the field."

"What field is that?" I asked.

"You know, for your condition."

"My condition?"

"Your situation."

"My situation?"

"Well, dash it all, I don't want to be blunt about it. Your attachment, I mean."

I felt like the conversation had come to a bit of a standstill, so I wished him a Happy New Year and left in the old motorcar.  
=====================================================================  
"What exactly did you do to call the dogs – to wit, my Uncle Tom – off, Jeeves?" I asked, when we'd returned to the metropolis.

"I merely suggested to the Travers's butler that spending your time with a lady's magazine might not be the best thing for you, sir," he replied.

"Well, I can agree with that! But I wonder what the butler could have said that would have changed Uncle Tom's mind."

"I may have suggested that more masculine pursuits would be better and might nullify a certain... attachment."

"That's the same word Uncle Tom used! 'Attachment.' Attachment to whom? Or what?"

"Well, perhaps I implied that you have developed an inappropriate affection for a member of your own sex."

"A what?!"

"It seemed the only way to resolve the situation, sir."

Well, no wonder Uncle Tom stepped back, and no wonder he was recommending a quack of the headshrinker variety. "Is there a particular person I'm supposed to be... attached to?"

"Yes, sir. Someone most unsuitable. Someone not of your class. Someone in your household."

"However did you know, Jeeves? I mean, quick thinking to make that up!"


End file.
